


but i’m not an insomniac.

by Fabellion



Category: Homestuck
Genre: ? - Freeform, Anxiety, Depression, Drabble, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Insomnia, Introspection, References to Depression, References to anxiety, Self-Reflection, Short One Shot, technically it’s insomnia, vent fic technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-18 17:41:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21530764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fabellion/pseuds/Fabellion
Summary: John, stuck in limbo between laying awake and wishing for sleep, unwillingly ponders the things he’d rather forget.(soooo I’ll admit this is more or less a vent fic, thus why it’s so short, but i hope those who give it a chance happen to enjoy it anyway :>)
Relationships: None
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	but i’m not an insomniac.

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually written a few month back, but I always considered uploading it and just now decided to bite the bullet. Again, it’s a vent fic, so please keep in mind that, while tame, it bears themes of implied depression and anxiety. 
> 
> This was also written before I finished reading Homestuck, so please don’t mind the endgame inaccuracies D:

It was half-past-nothing on the clock, he read, but the silence curling in the dark did nothing to offer John salvation. Midnight was for the insomniacs, the dream-junkies, always pining and waiting for the calm they knew would never come just as he had, but didn’t it mean something else when it was far too late to be ‘midnight’ anymore? 

What he could see of the night sky could hardly be described as pitch as had been a good few hours earlier. The stars no longer existed. The idea of moonlight was dubious; for all he knew, that was lamp-fodder streaming in through his window. 

Yes, the dark truly did nothing to drown the static stuttering behind his heavy lids. He groaned, and rolled over for the millionth time; it was too busy, his head too heavy, his thoughts too loud. They dripped down his throat with the noise and began pouring into his stomach, and no matter how much he squirmed John could not dispel the nausea coiling up in his gut. 

Thoughts of friends; Jade, Rose, Dave; the people he’d always considered more important than his own comfortable living. Or, what was now comfortable; they beat the game, after all. And that meant their lives had to go back to normal. 

Sburb was over, high school was over, their reign of godhood was over. All of it was over and he wished to god—whichever still existed—he knew why the thought made him tear up inside. 

They still talked, of course, and it’s not as though video chat didn’t exist. But what was the point in that, his mind slurred, drunken black fingers slithering out from its crevices and stroking at his core, what was the point when they couldn’t be like they used to? What if he never once got to see their smiling faces in person again? 

What would they think of him then, it whispered—he curled up in his sheets and muffled his ears in the covers—what would they think at how lazy he’d gotten lately? How his eyes glaze over when he remembers how things used to be not half a year ago, how his stomach drops and the rest of his organs alongside it, how the entirety of his bloodstream could freeze the Sahara desert over with one drop alone. It hurts to remember, he thinks, fighting back a whimper. It hurts to wonder what they’d think. 

The quiet of whatever-time doesn’t silence the static in his head. No matter how forceful he presses his ears between the sheets he can’t muffle the sounds already inside of him. Cold air traces the tears slipping down John’s cheeks, and only when he reaches up to wipe them away does he feel the tremor in his own fingertips. Nothing is the same anymore.

He doesn’t think it will be ever again.


End file.
